


The Madness of Two

by wanderlustnostalgia



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (kind of), A lot of pain, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Folie à Deux (Fall Out Boy), M/M, Pain, Songfic, Unrequited Love, benzedrine is an uptight prick, donnie doesn't know what to do with the other three, poor horseshoe, sandman is an emo fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: The greatest irony of Sandman's existence is that he doesn't sleep.  Sleep is a luxury he cannot afford and a privilege he will never be granted.  Instead he lies awake in bed, talks to shadows, curses the darkness that follows him, and envies the others for having what he himself can never attain.The one silver lining, if you can call it that, to being cursed with permanent insomnia is that it gives him plenty of time to think.  And so when he's not bringing sleep to the sleep-deprived and nightmares to the dreamers, he wanders the streets of the twisted universe he calls home and thinks.  He thinks about his existence, and he thinks about his identity, and he thinks about the people around them and how many of them are the same, soulless phantoms trying to reclaim a humanity they threw away ages ago.  He thinks about his role in all of that and wonders if he should feel guilty.Mostly, though, he thinks about Benzedrine.Without Benzedrine, there would be no powerful potions, no elixirs, no one to satisfy cravings and fuel addictions and soothe urges.Without Benzedrine, there would be no Sandman.





	1. trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the first fic I started writing for the FOB fandom because I wanted to try my hand at the ever-so-underappreciated America's Suitehearts AU. I'm cross-posting it to AO3 because I haven't done any actual work on it since October and I'm hoping to build up the motivation to work on it again. The characterization for Horseshoe Crab is inspired by [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2365415?view_adult=true) fic because I liked the idea of having a childlike character who struggles to understand his place in the grand scheme of things.

“Have you ever wanted to disappear?”

Sandman blinks, the question having caught him off-guard, and turns to look at Horseshoe Crab, who swallows and ducks his head in shame.  If he were Benzedrine, he would tweak Horseshoe's ear and scold him sharply for not keeping his mouth shut and allowing his thoughts to drift out into the open.  Benzedrine doesn't take kindly to any violation of the rules, and Horseshoe's never been good at keeping his thoughts to himself.

( _Thoughts are dangerous,_  Benzedrine purrs once, combing pale fingers through Horseshoe's long, dark curls.

 _If that's the case,_ Sandman whispers to himself, hiding in the shadows,  _then I’m a one-man army._ )

Benzedrine’s a doctor—the town apothecary, a position that is highly respected, highly coveted, and  _extremely_ difficult.  He’s a gifted man, and he runs the town, their beloved Hollywood Hills, making the pills and the potions that pass for heart and soul in this world.  He is also, if Sandman and his shadows are to be taken at their word (which Benzedrine says they aren’t, and he’s probably right), a rigid, uptight, prickly, no-nonsense stickler, always going on about order, order, order and rules, rules, rules.   _Rules are what keep the world turning,_ he reminds Horseshoe constantly, each word placed delicately and deliberately.   _Without rules, our world as we know it would crumble and fall to pieces.  And that, my dear Horseshoe Crab, is what we call a catastrophe._

Rules, rules, and more rules.

Sandman lives and breathes catastrophe.  He doesn't care much for the rules.

“I’m sorry,” Horseshoe Crab says, cheeks tinged red as his clothes, eyes hidden by his hair.  He won’t lift his head to look at Sandman, though whether that’s from shame or intimidation, it’s impossible to tell.  “I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” says Sandman, the word pushing itself from his (black, overlarge) lips before he can stop it.  Horseshoe Crab looks up, eyes wide and blue like Benzedrine’s, except not quite the way Benzedrine’s eyes are blue.  Benzedrine’s eyes are multi-colored, two golden suns in bright skies, while Horseshoe’s eyes are watery, the color of the sea, an odd contrast with his clothes.  For a moment Sandman hesitates, thinks of Benzedrine and his never-ending lectures about how Sandman has to set an example, how the rules are there for a reason and not meant to be broken.  God, Sandman  _hates_  being lectured, absolutely  _despises_  being talked down to like he's a child and Benzedrine is his schoolteacher—

( _—but oh God, that look Benzedrine gets when he’s angry, the way his not-quite-blue eyes flash and his heart-shaped lips pinch tightly together and his porcelain skin colors up the slightest bit, pink as a summertime rose, it sends shivers down Sandman's spine—_ )

In the end, though, his compassion wins out.  Or, more likely, his contempt for Benzedrine and his stupid, stupid rules.

Sandman clears his throat, running a hand through his shock of jet-black hair.  “Yes,” he murmurs, voice a low rasp against the ominous whistling of the wind, the constant stream of  _flash-flash-flash_  photography surrounding them, the periodic screams as another falls into the river.  “Yes, I have.”

Horseshoe Crab relaxes, shoulders drooping downward ever so slightly, his mouth curving upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.  His eyes drop to the ground again, this time landing on a little white daisy just beside his knee.  The two of them are sitting on a hill in the grass, legs outstretched, instruments balanced against the trunk of some sort of tree.  Sandman can’t stand the grass—it’s wet and prickly and a disgustingly vibrant shade of green that hurts his eyes to look at—but dark alleys frighten Horseshoe, who’s come to claim the grass as a sort of safe haven.  Horseshoe can be insufferable at times, but he makes for good company, especially when Benzedrine’s at work in his lab and can’t be bothered to talk to anyone.

( _Go talk to Donnie,_  Benzedrine snaps, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist, as if Sandman was nothing more than a flea.

Donnie’s the wise one, the enforcer of the rules, the catcher of anomalies.  He's just as respected as Benzedrine and takes his job every bit as seriously.  Donnie doesn't understand Sandman, and never will.

 _Donnie is no fun,_  Sandman retorts, slinking off to find Horseshoe.  At least he can relate to Horseshoe.)

Now he observes Horseshoe curiously, watches as he plucks the daisy from the ground and twirls it between his fingertips.  It’s only a daisy—they’ve got plenty more where that one came from—but he studies it with the intensity of an appraiser determining the value of a gemstone.  “Me too,” Horseshoe says, setting down the flower, and it takes a moment before Sandman realizes he was responding.  That he, too, wants to disappear.

It’s one of the many things they have in common, the things that Donnie and Benzedrine just don’t understand, and can’t understand.  They don’t know what it’s like to be plagued by thoughts, intrusive, dangerous thoughts; they don’t know what it’s like to face the darkness every day, to know what just what makes everyone tick, to push people to the breaking point every.  single.  night.  Because Benzedrine and Donnie make the people sing and Sandman and Horseshoe make the people cry, and those are the rules.

And so Sandman sits with Horseshoe Crab in the grass, and tries not to think about how the blue of his eyes reminds him of the blue in Benzedrine's eyes.  Because if he spares one more dangerous thought for Benzedrine, he just might go insane.


	2. i only want what i can't have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Funny,_ Sandman thinks. _It’s never “Hello, Sandman” with these people. They can spare words for Donnie and shake hands with Benzedrine and even tip their hat at Horseshoe, but they won't even glance my way._

Another day, another sleepless night.

Sandman bids Horseshoe farewell as they part ways for the night, Horseshoe heading up the hill to his cottage for a shower and sleep, Sandman down the hill, all the way to the edge of town, to clear his mind before he starts his work.  He’s the only one in the whole town allowed anywhere near the border, for reasons that are surely very important in Benzedrine’s mind but that Sandman is certain the good doctor’s using as an excuse to get him out of his lab.

( _Oh Ben-ze-driiiiiiiiiiine,_ Sandman sings, grin wide as ever, as he glides down the stairs into the lab, gray and cinderblock.

Benzedrine grits his teeth, lets out the tiniest grunt of frustration and a very faint hiss.  He’s bent over his test tubes, squinting at some bright yellow liquid spilling over from a beaker.   _Not now, Sandman,_ he grumbles.   _I'm working._

Sandman pouts, bottom lip sticking out in an impression of a young child about to throw a temper tantrum.   _Pleeeeeease,_  he whines.   _I just wanna talk._

 _For a man whose job is to lull people to sleep,_ Benzedrine replies, not taking his eyes off his work,  _you talk far too much._

 _Yeah, well,_  Sandman says, shrugging.   _Not all of us can tolerate absolute silence._

Benzedrine sighs, slow and drawn-out, as he pours a vial of neon green into a flask of scarlet red.   _I trust you can see yourself out._

Sandman’s smile fades, and he clears his throat, lips pinched tightly together.   _That's funny,_  he says, turning to head back up the stairs.   _You trusting me._ )

The joke’s on Benzedrine, though.  It may take him a little longer, but Sandman still finds a way to drop in every night.  That’s another thing about Sandman—he’s nothing if not persistent.

He walks along the path, a narrow street paved with gold bricks and adorned, every few feet or so, by a patch of bright red roses.  It’s barely wide enough to fit a carriage or a car, but Sandman’s stride never falters, and he continues down the middle of the road, letting people swerve around him in a blind panic when they approach.

 _Funny,_  Sandman thinks.  _It’s never “Hello, Sandman” with these people. They can spare words for Donnie and shake hands with Benzedrine and even tip their hat at Horseshoe, but they won't even glance my way._

He continues on, brushing the thought aside; the shadows coil and swirl around him, engulfing him in thick black tongues.  There's a music shop just up ahead that specializes in voices, and as he passes, Sandman notices that on the doorstep, someone has left a vintage phonograph with a record already playing.

 _“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,”_  a chorus of women sing cheerily, from an old phonograph left on the doorstep of a record store.   _“Mr. Sandman, I'm so alone.”_   Sandman rolls his eyes, shakes his head, resists the urge to snap the phonograph in two.  They taunt him, mock him and his loneliness by asking him to cure theirs.  It’s not as if easing them into unconsciousness is enough; no, they need a man to dream of, with  _two lips like roses and clover_  and  _a pair of eyes with a “come-hither” gleam_ , a man to love them forever and ever, till death do us part.

That's one of the things Sandman hates most about his job—it requires him to give people what he himself craves, and cannot have.

( _You can only blame your problems on the world for so long,_ Benzedrine intones, touching up his eyeliner in the mirror,  _before it all becomes the same old song._

 _Are you calling me a whiner?_ Sandman snaps, fists clenched, shadows swirling wildly around him, ready to attack at a moment's notice.

 _Please,_  Benzedrine says, lips still and poker-faced but blue-gold eyes gleaming with mischief.   _Whingeing is obviously more your style._ )

Sandman exhales sharply, trying to shake the image of Benzedrine and his eyes from his mind.  It’ll only distract him.  As unpleasant as his job is, at least it gives him a chance to concentrate on something other than the maelstrom of thoughts plundering through his head.

He's almost past Benzedrine’s cottage now, with its almost fluorescent yellow coat of paint and the big wooden  _B_ marking the door, and he can see the lights on inside, though the man himself is nowhere to be found.  Benzedrine's rarely ever in his cottage.  For the most part, his laboratory is his home, a home that everyone knows about but few are ever allowed inside.

For a moment Sandman pauses, considers turning around and popping in for a quick visit, just because he knows it will drive Benzedrine up the wall.  And then he shrugs, going on his way.  He’ll catch Benzedrine on his way up.  He always does.

After all, Benzedrine never said visiting at insane hours of the night was against the rules.


	3. before it gets better the darkness gets bigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every night he stands there and wonders whether taking the plunge would be a bad thing; whether he should just vault over the fence and embrace the darkness, free from Benzedrine’s rules and Donnie’s warnings and Horseshoe’s fears and the people’s ever-increasing demands.

Beyond the village of shops and houses, identical in shape and size; beyond the carousel and the green river that winds, snake-like, through the town; beyond the field of meticulously, individually planted dandelions and daisies; beyond the lone tree that shelters a flock of blackbirds; beyond all that which they consider the realm of the Hollywood Hills, is the Unknown.

It’s not to be confused with the Portal from Normal Land (south-southeast of the carousel; it even has its own sign with blinking lights)—no, the Unknown is darkness, vast and terrifying, the place where the sky seems to drop off and disappear into emptiness.  

Most people don’t go near the border, turning on their heels when the gold pavement turns to cobblestone or, in rare cases, when the cobblestone turns to grass.  The darkness is too foreboding, the fear of what lies beyond too powerful.  Maybe the darkness is a reminder of who they were before they sold their souls; maybe it’s a reflection of yearning thoughts and dormant desires bubbling deep beneath the surface.

(Sandman recalls once, a long time ago, a man ran all the way down the hill, through the field, and over the fence, throwing himself into the void.  The screams were heard for days afterwards; Horseshoe tossed and turned and cried in his bed and had to have one of the others watching over him when he slept to make sure he didn't hurt himself.

 _He was a madman,_  Benzedrine tells Donnie in the aftermath, when Horseshoe has finally fallen asleep, his head in the doctor’s lap.  Benzedrine shakes his head, sighs quietly.   _Sometimes, there comes a time when pills and potions aren’t enough.  Sometimes your mind warps and twists and gets so lost in itself that it can’t take it anymore and just shatters.  And when your mind shatters, all inhibitions are lost.  A man’s most dangerous enemy is himself, and oftentimes that's something medicine cannot fix._

Donnie nods solemnly, and Sandman tries to pretend he didn't see Benzedrine's eyes flicker briefly in his direction.)

Sandman’s at the border now, blocked off by a perfectly straight wooden fence with the words  **DO NOT CROSS**  painted on in dripping neon green.  The darkness stares him in the face, daring him to come closer, and his shadows recede, too intimidated to shield him.  He leans both arms against the railing and pushes his face forward, daring to inch his way a little closer than last time.  It’s quiet, save for the sounds of lights going off, the occasional cricket chirping, and every so often a rustle in the trees.  A far cry from the daytime, when everywhere there seems to be bright lights and loud noises, people screaming and shouting and laughing and talking and in the middle of it all, the music coming from the carousel, the same song with its thumping bassline and its wailing guitar riffs and Benzedrine crooning with a smile on his face.  Sandman misses the ruckus, the cacophony.  The quiet only serves to amplify his most dangerous thoughts.

Every night he stands there and wonders whether taking the plunge would be a bad thing; whether he should just vault over the fence and embrace the darkness, free from Benzedrine’s rules and Donnie’s warnings and Horseshoe’s fears and the people’s ever-increasing demands.  Maybe there is beauty in silence:  maybe his thoughts will drown and die out in the infinite blackness; maybe he’ll close his eyes and fall into the welcome respite of unconsciousness; maybe he’ll slowly fall away, disintegrate into tiny pieces and melt into the void.  Maybe then it’ll be quiet; maybe then he will finally be free.

But the shadows reach out, coiling themselves around his arms and legs, pulling him back from the edge.  No, he mustn’t cross the fence.  He has a job to do.

Sandman sighs and turns away, trudging back up the hill, his back slouched.  The shadows flutter for a little before coming to rest on his shoulders, comforting him, but unlike the flames they resemble, they are devoid of heat, bursts of cold air slithering up the back of his neck.  He shivers, but does not complain; other than Horseshoe ( _ ~~and Benzedrine~~_ ), they’re the best company he has, the closest thing to friends a phantom can claim.

He makes his way back up the road, one gloved hand in his pocket, the other holding a small velvet pouch.  As he approaches the first house, he opens the pouch and pours out a small handful of black powder—dream sand.  Pushing the window up a tiny crack, he peers in to see a teenage girl, face still, cheek pillowed on her hand, the picture of tranquility.  Right now she looks like another Normal Lander (pimples, scars,  _those dreadful braces_ ), but Sandman can see it--he can see the pills on her nightstand, that unmistakable sunny yellow, the ones that start the cravings and get them high on their own fame.

He holds his hand out and blows gently on the sand, which travels through the open window, swirling in circles around the girl’s head before scattering like stardust into her hair.  Sandman watches her shift around a little, still mostly undisturbed, before slinking away from the window and heading off to the next house.

( _Don’t get too attached,_  he reminds himself constantly.  He made that mistake once, and that was enough.)

He makes his way up the road in this fashion, zigzagging along the path, scattering sand in every window, house by house.  He doesn’t know what dreams will find their way into their minds, but he hopes each person gets pleasant dreams, dreams that don’t wake them up in a cold sweat, dreams that leave smiles on their faces before they wake up and grow ever closer to facing their inevitable dooms.

But he has no control over their dreams—he’s the messenger, not the creator, and the sand interacts with people in ways he can’t explain.

(Benzedrine can, though.  And Benzedrine probably has.  But there’s only so long Sandman can tolerate having his ear talked off before his thoughts come crawling back.)

Eventually he reaches the last house, just below a clothing shop and above that, Benzedrine's cottage.  He vaguely recognizes this one as belonging to an older woman, but tonight it's empty, save for a collection of stuffed dolls lying on the bed.

Sandman shakes his head and sighs, recalling the screaming in the river from earlier.  Mentally, he adds another tally mark to his list.  This happens all the time.  He's not sure he’ll get used to it, though.

 _Just another night,_  he tells himself as the shadows cloak him, trying to reassure him.   _Just another night._

And then, just like every other night, for reasons beyond his control, he heads up to Benzedrine’s.


	4. little girl, you got me staring odd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of everyone in the village Sandman calls home, there are two people who don’t sleep.

 

Out of everyone in the village Sandman calls home, there are two people who don’t sleep.

There’s Sandman.

And then there’s Benzedrine.

If there’s one downside to being Benzedrine (and Sandman would know; he’s spent more time than he cares to admit analyzing the matter), it’s that his responsibility to the townspeople far outweighs his personal needs.  It’s one thing to be Sandman, who should be able to sleep but just...doesn’t, for reasons that he’s never been able to fathom, but Benzedrine actually has a  _reason_  for the sleeplessness.  People come into his shop in the morning itching for a fix:  some wide-eyed and hyper, their smiles large and blinding; but many others hollow, thin, with skin pale and cheeks sunken in and dark, raccoon-ish bags under their eyes.  He greets them all with an affable smile and a bottle of pills to be taken every morning or an injection to be administered once every two days, and sends them away, urging them to be careful.

(They never listen, of course, and by six in the morning, they’re back for more.)

It’d be one thing if Benzedrine was just a dealer, someone with easy access to pills and potions who could make them appear with a snap of his fingers, but Benzedrine’s so much more than that.  He is a doctor, after all, one who takes pride in his work, dedicating himself to finding just the right balances of dopamine and serotonin and all the other things that trick the brain into thinking,  _yes, I am content._ He can’t make his potions when he’s dealing with customers and patients—no, because then he might risk his formulas being discovered, and that would be  _disastrous._

So the city sleeps, and Benzedrine works, toiling away in his laboratory.  Every night, the same.  And every night, Sandman walks, wondering whether Benzedrine scoffs at the notion of sleep or craves it just as much as the rest of them.

Something’s different about tonight, though.  Sandman can feel it—there’s an odd warmth to the usually brisk night air that’s difficult to place, and the lights in Benzedrine's cottage, normally dim, seem to shine brighter than usual.  Goosebumps prick his skin and his shadows stiffen, oddly still for once.  For a moment, Sandman stands motionless, simply stares at the little yellow house with its perfectly symmetrical roof and the perfectly symmetrical shadow it casts on the road.  (Benzedrine’s terribly fond of symmetry, he thinks, and Sandman wonders whether, if he were to cut the doctor in half, both sides would be a perfect mirror of each other.)

He’s not sure how much time passes before his shadows push him forward and he blinks, glancing down at his feet.   _Huh,_  he thinks, his face growing hot, and briefly he glances over his shoulder, the sensation of being watched creeping up on him like spiders crawling on his back.

_You’re being paranoid again, Sandy.  Wouldn’t want Benzedrine to think you’re crazy, now, would you?  Oh, wait—you are._

Ignoring the mocking voice in the back of his head, Sandman shakes his head and takes one step forward, then another, and then another, until he's striding easily along the path like he normally does.

In no time at all, he strolls up to Benzedrine’s door, feet aching inside his boots.  The lights are still on, a brilliant pale yellow against the dark of the night, but no sound comes from within.   Benzedrine’s lab is soundproof.  Nobody knocks at Benzedrine’s front door—least of all Sandman, who, as on most nights, places a gloved hand on the brass knob, turns, and pushes the door open.

As he steps through the doorway, something—some _one_ —smacks into his chest, and Sandman stumbles backwards, his heart pounding against his ribcage.  The other figure—a small, slight thing—steps back into the house, hands raised, and though their face is in shadow, Sandman can make out the outline of two high ponytails, puffed sleeves, and a tapered skirt.

“Pardon me,” the girl says, her voice low and slightly husky for someone of her size, and if Sandman squints he can just make out the shape of her face and the slightest hint of a nose, but little else.  “I was just leaving.”

“Sorry,” Sandman mutters, and the girl nods awkwardly before brushing past him and heading down the hill.  He watches her leave, her ponytails bouncing behind her, until she’s far enough that she appears only to be a retreating blur bobbing away.

_So she's a villager.  Out past curfew.  In Benzedrine’s lab._

Definitely not an ordinary night.

Taking a deep breath, Sandman turns back to the door, left open in the girl’s haste to get home, or wherever she was going, and invites himself inside.


	5. you're a canary, i'm a coal mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That is the definition of assistant, is it not? One who helps."

When Sandman steps foot in Benzedrine's lab, he's immediately hit with the scent of antiseptic, acetone, and flowers.  The unsavory combination should make him sick to his stomach, but Sandman's been in Benzedrine's lab so often that his nose is accustomed to it by now.  As he makes his way to the middle of the gray room, he inhales deeply, breathing in perfume and what are probably toxic chemicals, but he knows they won't affect him in the slightest.

( _Are these dangerous?_   he asks Benzedrine once, holding a vial to his nose and recoiling from the stench.

 _Only if you swallow them,_  Benzedrine answers, taking the vial from Sandman's hand.   _And stop that.  I don't need you dropping things all over my floor._ )

"Evening, doc," Sandman says cheerily, pushing himself up onto one of the pristine white lab tables and taking his seat on the edge.  His shadows settle comfortably on his shoulders as his legs dangle three inches or so off the ground, swinging restlessly back and forth.

Benzedrine is seated at his desk, scribbling away in a leather-bound notebook with a feather quill pen, and though his back is to Sandman, the man in black can picture his brows knitting in annoyance.  "Sandman," he murmurs.  "How funny, I could have sworn you were here six hours ago."

"So perceptive, Doctor," Sandman deadpans.  "Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me."

"Very funny.  Now if you're finished directing passive-aggressive insults my way, kindly refrain from taking your seat on my table; you and your shadows will contaminate it with outside particles."

Sandman huffs, dismayed, but he hops off the table and goes to lean an arm on Benzedrine's desk.  Benzedrine continues to write, and from this angle Sandman can see his profile, can see him bite his lip in concentration as bits of strawberry-blond hair fall out from beneath his hat.  Exasperating as Benzedrine can be, Sandman somehow finds the urge to caress that cheek and tuck those strands of hair behind his ear insanely overwhelming.

"What are you thinking, Sandman?" Benzedrine says, breaking the silence.  He's stopped writing, his eyes scanning the page for mistakes.

Sandman runs his tongue along his upper lip and briefly considers making a sarcastic remark before telling the truth.  "I bumped into a little girl on my way to see you," he says, adjusting the little top hat so it lies perfectly centered on Benzedrine's head.

"You're going to have to be more specific."  Benzedrine lightly touches the tip of his finger with his tongue before turning the page of his notebook, and normally Sandman can't stand when people do that, but something about the image of Benzedrine's tongue takes hold in his mind and refuses to let go.  "Define 'little', Sandman.  The word 'little' has many different connotations.  Do you mean small, or young, or—"

"Both," Sandman replies.  "She was short, and skinny, and I couldn't see her face, but she was wearing those pigtail things on her head.  She looked like a kid, y'know?  But she was coming out of your house."

"Ah, I see you've met Tiffany, then."

_Tiffany?_

That was not the response Sandman was expecting.

"Wait, wait,  _Tiffany?_   Y-you mean she has a  _name?_ "

"Of course she has a name.  Don't be ridiculous, Sandman."

Sandman rolls his eyes.  "That's not what I meant," he says, although if he's being completely honest with himself, he was almost expecting her not to have a name.  Even in the dark, something about the aura this... _Tiffany_  girl had about her was off-putting, out of place.  "What was she doing here?"

Benzedrine sighs, setting down his pen before finally turning to look Sandman in the eye.  His expression is coldly neutral, as usual, but his eyelids are starting to droop and Sandman can see the beginnings of bags under his eyes.  "Why is that any of your business?" he asks, voice quiet and tinged with fatigue.

Sandman shrugs.  It isn't any of his business—none of Benzedrine's work is, really, but he always finds himself wanting to know more, wants to know every dirty little secret the doctor keeps hidden up his sleeves.  "Can't bring dreams if they're not in bed," he says, privately congratulating himself for coming up with a logical answer.

Benzedrine nods, either too impressed or too exhausted to come up with a rebuttal, and Sandman thinks he likes Benzedrine better when he's tired, when there's less pretension and the man behind the makeup starts to show through the cracks in the facade.  "She isn't a patient," he says.  "She came into the lab this morning while I was administering a dose of amphetamines and stayed to observe.  She wouldn't speak while I was occupied, but once they left she would keep asking me questions.  About my work, about my methods, about my patients."

"You didn't kick her out?"

"I would have, but she seemed so fascinated by everything that I didn't have the heart to ask her to leave."  Benzedrine leans on his desk, props his chin up on his hand.  "It's quite amusing, actually.  She seems to believe I am in dire need of an assistant."

Had Sandman been drinking a glass of water, he would most certainly have spit it out by now.  Instead he lets his mouth fall open and his shadows flare up in surprise as the words sink in.  "An assistant?  You mean, like, to help you?"

"That is the definition of assistant, is it not?  One who helps."  Benzedrine shuts the cover of the book and ruffles a hand through his hair, pushing the hat back just slightly.  "I told her I would consider it.  In truth, I had my mind made up as soon as the first question fell from her mouth."

 _Of course you did,_ thinks Sandman.  "And?" he asks, fully expecting him to welcome her with open arms, because stubborn as he is, surely Benzedrine wouldn't be foolish enough to reject any offer of help.  He can see it already, his mind's eye bitterly constructing an image of a girl in velvet and a doctor in silk exchanging pleasantries over flasks of H202 or whatever else he keeps in his lab, and glares at the floor, steeling himself for the inevitable.

"I'm turning her away."

"Oh."

Sandman chews at his lip, unable to tear his eyes from the floor.  He should be relieved that Benzedrine's time won't be monopolized by some nosy little girl, but there's this feeling of uncertainty that weighs down heavily on his shoulders and twists his stomach in a knot.  His feet ache in his boots.  The lights are too bright.  His heart pounds uncomfortably in his chest.  Images of a faceless specter with two pigtails flash by, laughing at him, taunting him, dancing around him while he falls to his knees and cries out in pain—until the shadows shake him and he jolts, back to reality.

"I just thought, since—" he begins to mumble, lifting his head to look at Benzedrine.

"Since what?"  Those baby blues are trained on him now, tired but somehow concerned, waiting on an answer that Sandman can't give.

Sandman sighs.  "Nothing," he says, scratching at the back of his neck.  He feels vaguely lightheaded.  "I should go."

Benzedrine stares at him quizzically.  "You've been here all of seven minutes.  I hardly think now is a suitable time for you to leave."

And normally Sandman would laugh it off, would ruffle the doctor's hair and chirp,  _Just kidding, Doc, I'd never leave you alone,_  but his face feels hot and sweaty and there's a growing tightness in his chest and maybe it's just him but the room seems to be getting smaller all of a sudden, the walls closing in on him till he's suffocating in alcohol and acetone, and Benzedrine rises from his seat to help him, the look on his face morphing into something like shock, and his mouth moves to say something but Sandman doesn't hear it, he just knows he has to get out,  _he has to get out,_ and with his shadows following frenziedly behind, he rushes from the room, barely managing not to knock over a rack of test tubes in the process.

He's barely out the door of Benzedrine's cottage when he collapses in the alley and vomits, the faint outline of the pigtailed girl still lurking beneath his eyelids.


End file.
